


Night Red and Seeing White

by LearnedFoot



Series: Needs Assistance [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: First Time, Iron Man Suit Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, inappropriate use of technology, mild d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Because, yeah, that’s what’s going on here. Mr. Stark has come all the way to Boston so that he, Iron Man, billionaire, one of the most brilliant minds the world has ever known, can have sex with Peter. While wearing his Iron Man suit. Because Peter said that would be hot.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Needs Assistance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696753
Comments: 37
Kudos: 388
Collections: Robot Rainbow 2020





	Night Red and Seeing White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> A sequel to [Further Assistance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075279). Which mostly means you should remember that in this universe, Peter's powers make it harder for him to come, not easier. (Why? Porn logic, mostly.)

Peter can’t actually believe this is happening right now.

Like, this is crazy, right?

Not that it wasn’t crazy when Mr. Stark sent him a box of sex toys out of the blue. Or when he watched as Peter used them. Not to mention the part where he basically invented a whole new level of sex toy technology overnight just to get Peter off. Just because he wanted—wants—Peter like that.

That was all incredibly crazy, and yet, less crazy than Mr. Stark clearing an entire SI lab so they can fuck.

Because, yeah, that’s what’s going on here. Mr. Stark has come all the way to Boston so that he, Iron Man, billionaire, one of the most brilliant minds the world has ever known, can have sex with Peter. While wearing his Iron Man suit. Because Peter said that would be hot.

“Hello?” Mr. Stark stops his tour of the facilities, turning so abruptly Peter almost walks into him; only his senses save him. “Earth to Spider-kid. Am I boring you with one of the most advanced labs in the world?”

“No, no, sorry, Mr. Stark.” Peter does his best to appear engaged and interested. He _is_ interested. Very. Theoretically. He’s just a little distracted, you know? “This is super cool, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Mr. Stark deadpans, but he doesn’t seem upset. “Okay, save the tour for later, got it. I guess I’ll take it as a compliment. I’m more exciting than cutting edge technology.”

“Depends _which_ technology.” Peter tries adding a coy smile, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work. Honestly, he’s not really sure what a coy smile _is_ , other than the thing he’s supposed to have at a moment like this, probably. “Some of the technology you’ve invented recently is _really_ interesting. Like the, the gauntlet, and the dildo…”

Did he actually just say the word _dildo_ to Mr. Stark? Here? In person? Fuck, this is _so_ weird. And he probably shouldn’t have actually said it. Innuendo, right? May gave him flirting advice once, and she definitely said something about subtlety. That had not been subtle. Why didn’t he pay more attention—

Suddenly Mr. Stark’s lips are on his and his panic instantly dulls, cut off at its knees as his mind zeroes in on the rub of beard and the taste of breath mints. It’s not like any kiss he’s ever had before: Mr. Stark is confident, sure of what he’s doing as he grabs Peter’s chin, pulling him closer. His lips part, just a little, enough to feel warm and wet, to tease with his tongue but not go any further. When he pulls back, dropping his hands but leaving less than an inch between them, his expression is fond in a way that makes Peter’s stomach flip.

“You looked like you needed to press pause on your brain,” Mr. Stark explains, as if he can tell Peter’s mind is currently filled with nothing but question marks. “Did that work?”

“I, um, yes. Very paused.” He sounds like an idiot, but Mr. Stark smiles, so maybe it’s okay to sound like an idiot. He realizes he’s clutching the edge of his own t-shirt and drops it. He didn’t expect to be this nervous, not after he’s already splayed himself open and naked, but it’s different, in person. “Not thinking about a thing.”

Mr. Stark laughs. “Now _that’s_ clearly a lie.” He observes Peter, eyes skating down his body, then to his face. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can call the whole thing off if you’re having second thoughts.”

“What? No!” He can’t actually think Peter wants that, can he? Is this his way of saying _he_ wants to call it off? Peter finds himself clutching his t-shirt again, because he is a complete disaster. “No, I really want to do this, sir. A lot. I mean…if you still do?”

The grin he gets in response to that makes Peter’s dick twitch in his pants—it’s still fond, but a little lecherous, too, with shades of the way he used to look at women in the tabloid snapshots Peter kept under his bed.

He’s looking at _Peter_ like that. Again: crazy.

“Thank god,” Mr. Stark says, and he sounds genuinely relieved. “I think I would’ve had to fuck the suit myself if you left me hanging on this one.”

“Really?” That doesn’t sound like he wants to call it off. Which—yeah, he _did_ start it, after all. It makes sense that he actually wants it, except for the part where none of this makes any sense at all.

“Really, kid.” Mr. Stark brings his fingers to Peter’s face, running the back of them down his cheek. The tenderness of the gesture makes it hard to breathe, but in a good way. Like he’s about to take a giant leap, but with someone who will catch him as he falls. “This is all I’ve been able to think about for weeks.”

“Oh,” Peter says, because he’s not sure what else to say. He can feel grateful tears trying to form in his eyes and forces them back down. Part of him wants to ask if they can take a rain check on this and just cuddle or something, but he doesn’t. One, that would make him seem really silly, and two, somewhere in this lab is an Iron Man suit with a dildo dick built specifically for him, and there is just no way he’s passing up that opportunity. “Same. So, should we, um…should we get to it?”

The corner of Mr. Stark’s mouth twitches as he nods. “We’ve got to work on your dirty talk, kid. But yeah, let’s ‘get to it.’”

***

Mr. Stark really went all out setting this whole thing up. There’s a bed and everything. A steel reinforced bed, with a mattress and sheets and pillows.

“How…how did you explain this?” Peter asks as he sits on the edge of it, legs swinging. It’s very strange to be on a bed only a few feet away from a lab desk. “Did you tell them it’s for an experiment or something?”

Mr. Stark slips out of the blazer he’s wearing, revealing one of his endless band shirts. He folds it carefully as he explains, “When you’re me, you can just stare sternly and people don’t ask questions.”

“Oh. That’s pretty cool.”

Peter watches as Mr. Stark places the jacket on a spare stool. Should he be getting undressed, too? Maybe not; he has less to take off, just his jeans and t-shirt and sneakers. Maybe Mr. Stark will want to undress him? Or…fuck, what if he wants to watch? It’s not like Peter hasn’t been naked in front of anyone before—hell, he’s been naked in front of _Mr. Stark_ —but there’s a difference between a dimly lit dorm room and a bright lab. What if he’s less impressive in person?

Mr. Stark frowns, then crosses and sits lightly on the bed next to him. He takes Peter’s hand; his are dry and a little rough, but Peter likes the feeling of their fingers twining together.

“You still look nervous, Pete.” Mr. Stark’s tone is gentle. “I don’t love that.”

Of course. They haven’t even started and he’s messing up.

“Sorry. I want to do this, it’s just—” He gestures around the room. “It’s a lot?”

Mr. Stark follows the sweep of Peter’s hand, as if he’s only just now taking in their environment. “Right. Sex in a lab is a little strange for a first time. I see that now. I was worried about breaking things, but if you’d rather go back to my hotel—”

Peter shakes his head. If they change locations, he might lose his nerve entirely. Besides, that wouldn’t fix the fundamental problem. “It’s not really the lab, sir. I mean, it _is_ , but mostly it’s—well, it’s you.”

“Me? Still?”

“Uh, _yeah_.” He can’t seriously not get that, can he? Sure, they’ve been having video sex for weeks, but—he’s Tony Stark. He has to know how intimidating he is. “I know we’ve done all that stuff but…”

Peter shrugs, frustrated. He doesn’t know how to explain it without seeming pathetic or inexperienced or any of the things he absolutely is. The things that make this all feel like a dream that could be ripped away at any second.

“What if you change your mind?” he finally supplies, feeling small and stupid for even saying it.

Mr. Stark turns and faces Peter, grabbing his neck, forcing him to look him in the eye.

“Kid, no,” he says, firmly. “If that’s your only problem, trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”

And then he pulls Peter into another kiss, longer and deeper than before. One hand slides into Peter’s hair, the second comes to his waist, hauling him into his lap, awkward and splayed until Peter catches up to what’s happening and straddles him, lost in the moment.

It’s so much: the wetness of Mr. Stark’s mouth, the scent of aftershave and a cologne that’s almost too strong for Peter’s senses. Those _hands_ , maneuvering, moving, pulling his hair one second, wide on his back the next. He feels like he’s drowning in sensory input and it all goes straight to his dick. He bucks forward, rubbing against the hard plane of Mr. Stark’s stomach.

“Fuck,” Mr. Stark groans against his mouth. It’s the hottest thing Peter’s ever heard, even hotter than all the dirty talk over video, because it’s a response to touching him, to kissing him, and that must mean he likes what he feels.

“Mr. Stark,” he moans in return, and Mr. Stark’s fingers dig into his sides, pulling him closer. He once said he likes it when Peter calls him that, so he tries again: “God, Mr. Stark, you taste amazing.”

Mr. Stark grabs him and spins, pinning Peter underneath him. The suddenness of it takes his breath away; the feel of someone heavier than him pressing him against the bed makes his dick throb. His underwear is getting sticky and uncomfortable with precome, but he doesn’t let that distract him from kissing back.

“Less nervous?” Mr. Stark asks, nosing Peter’s cheek. He rolls his hips, letting Peter feel how hard he is.

Peter nods. “It’s easier when you take control,” he confesses, as if he hasn’t already said some very explicit things about exactly how much he likes that in the past. “Can you keep—yeah. Being in control?”

“For you? Gladly.” Mr. Stark plants a kiss on his cheek—surprisingly sweet, given the topic—then sits back. Before Peter can protest the lack of contact, he pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, revealing broad shoulders and a firm stomach. The nanobot container sits in the center of his scarred chest.

“Whoa,” Peter stays, before he can stop himself. Mr. Stark has never undressed in front of him before, not on the video calls, not even casually before that; _Peter_ would strip in the lab to try on a new suit, sometimes, but never Mr. Stark. He’s not sure what he wants to touch first: the lines of his muscles, the pattern of his scars, or the technology he created, metal and glowing and yet so clearly a part of him. “Can I—?”

Mr. Stark doesn’t stop him as he props himself up so he can reach, trailing his fingers tentatively around the edge of the casing. When he glances up, Mr. Stark is looking down at him with eyes gone dark from lust.

“Like that?” he says, voice rough. “I made it for you.”

As if to demonstrate, he taps his chest and the suit unfolds along his right arm. It goes slower than it does in battle, as if making a show of it, skin disappearing behind red metal. It’s darker than the normal suit, too, richer, with lines of gold scattered decoratively along the joints.

“I like the color,” Peter says, not that it really matters. He’d like it if it were neon green. He just—he doesn’t know how to convey the rest of it: the way his body melts at the idea of being held down, properly, by something actually strong enough to hold him. By something _built_ to hold him. By Mr. Stark, who went to all this trouble—

Fuck.

Suddenly, he isn’t nervous at all. He’s just really, really turned on.

“Night Red,” Mr. Stark says, observing his handiwork with a smirk. “So I don’t get it mixed up with the real thing. This one has some extras I’m hoping you’ll enjoy, but it’s a little lacking in the weapons department. Though”—he grabs Peter by the wrist, pulling him close—“it’s still _very_ strong. Could do some damage in a pinch.”

Peter tries to twist free, testing, but he can’t get the suit to budge. Maybe he could beat it if he pushed himself to his absolute limits, but normal course of business? Nope, the suit wins. The thought makes him whine.

Mr. Stark leans forward and nips his ear. “You like when I can overpower you?”

“God, yes.” Peter lets his head fall forward, hiding against Mr. Stark’s shoulder. Like that, it’s easier to say what he’s feeling. “I want you to ruin me, sir.”

“Happily.”

The pressure on Peter’s wrist lets up; then Mr. Stark is yanking at his t-shirt. Peter quickly raises his arms, letting him pull it off. It joins Mr. Stark’s shirt in a pile by the side of the bed. Mr. Stark leans back, drinking him in.

“Gorgeous,” he says, and it sounds honest: as if he really means it, not just for Peter’s benefit.

Peter blushes. “I don’t know about—oh, _wow_.” Modesty is lost in the sensation of Mr. Stark skimming the contours of his chest with both hands, rough pads of his fingertips on one side, cool, smooth metal of the suit on the other. It’s sensory overload in the best way. “Fuck, I don’t know which I like more.”

Mr. Stark smiles, then scrapes a nail lightly across Peter’s nipple; he has to close his eyes to take it in, hands grabbing at the sheets.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time you let me watch,” Mr. Stark explains, repeating the motion. “You’re so sensitive, the expression you get is unbelievable.”

Peter huffs and opens his eyes. “It _feels_ unbelievable.”

“That is the goal.”

Mr. Stark keeps going like that, fingers tweaking and toying with one nipple, then the other, gauntlet overwhelming Peter with less subtle movements, running along his stomach, tracing his spine, making him shiver. He’s not sure how long it goes on: it feels like both hours and seconds, time contracting and expanding until the only thing he can think about is getting _more_. He’s so hard it hurts, and yet nowhere near coming.

“Mr. Stark,” he finally gasps. “ _Please_.”

Mr. Stark laughs, but it’s delighted, not cruel or teasing. “I could get used to hearing that. Now lie down so I can get these pants off you.”

Peter lies back immediately, waiting patiently while Mr. Stark removes his sneakers, then lifting his hips to help with the jeans, trying not to make a shocked sound when Mr. Stark takes Peter’s boxers with them, leaving his dick jutting into the air, leaking and exposed.

Mr. Stark stands at the edge of the bed, looking him over. “How many times can I call you gorgeous before you start thinking I’m completely ridiculous?”

Peter watches his own cock respond to the compliment, visibly spirting precome.

Mr. Stark must see it too, because he answers his own question: “Apparently I haven’t hit the limit yet. Excellent.”

Then he taps the chestplate and the suit expands, covering his free arm and creeping down his stomach. His hands go to his jeans; he leans over to take them off, and when he stands again, his entire body is covered in gleaming metal, leaving only his face free.

On one hand, Peter thinks it’s kind of unfair he doesn’t get to see Mr. Stark naked while he’s lying here completely bare. On the other hand—wow, the suit is hot, and _wow_ , being so exposed next to something so powerful is extra hot. Brain meltingly hot. So hot he can barely figure out how to form words when Mr. Stark asks how he’s feeling.

“I’ll take that as a good sign,” he says after Peter squeaks something borderline incoherent. He looks at the bed, at Peter, at the bed again—thinking. Then he snaps his fingers and points at the headboard. “You, scoot up,” he commands.

That tone is _doing things_ to Peter. Things that make him dizzy with need. He hurries to follow the instruction, moving back until he’s at the head of the bed. Mr. Stark follows, crawling forward until he’s looming over him, hands planted at either side of his head. Instinctually, Peter spreads his legs, making room.

“Smart boy,” Mr. Stark praises, and Peter feels himself relax. Well, relax as much as he can when he’s so hard it hurts and he can barely think straight. So, not very relaxed. But he definitely likes hearing he’s doing a good job. He turns and nuzzles into Mr. Stark’s arm. It’s cold and hard and smells like metal, but it’s still nice to touch him.

“Can you feel that?” he asks. He kisses the metal, then tries licking it. It tastes like pennies. “I want you to feel good, too.”

Mr. Stark bends and bites the shell of Peter’s ear, sending another wave of arousal shooting through his body. He literally did not know he could be this turned on.

“Kid, this would be one of the top ten hottest things that has ever happened to me even if I couldn’t feel a thing,” he says with a sincerity that makes Peter ache to his core. “That said, I am a genius, so, yeah, I can feel you. I kind of revolutionized haptic feedback for this.”

“Oh.” Peter tilts his head to catch Mr. Stark in a kiss. “That’s really amazing. Will you explain it later?”

He can feel Mr. Stark smile as he kisses back, as he sucks down Peter’s neck, as he whispers, “You’re perfect.”

And then, out of nowhere, there’s something hard and slick at Peter’s hole. Not, he quickly realizes, Mr. Stark’s hand: both of those are still busy on either side of his head, boxing him in, making him feel surrounded. No, this is something thin and smooth, like the world’s tiniest metal dildo, easing in with the help of what Peter has to assume is lube produced by the suit.

Or—oh, fuck, maybe _not_ tiniest. The thing gets wider as it works in and out of him, thrusting of its own accord, without Mr. Stark seeming to move. It’s a little disconcerting, actually, but the stretch feels nice.

“One of the extras?” he asks, and it comes out gasping. Okay, correction: the stretch feels _really_ nice. Everything feels really nice. He’s so turned on he’s not sure he can even tell the difference between one touch and another, metal and warm eyes and the taste of Mr. Stark on his tongue blending into burning need.

“Yep. And so’s this.” Mr. Stark does something, an angle changes, and suddenly Peter’s seeing white. And again. And again.

“Holy—”

He tries to catch his breath, but then Mr. Stark grabs his arms, pinning his writs above his head.

Peter shuts his eyes. It’s all too much in exactly the right way, and yet he wants so much more, cock screaming for attention.

“Ready?” Mr. Stark growls, and all Peter can do is nod, frantic. “Good boy.”

Peter’s hole clenches at nothing as Mr. Stark pulls out. There’s a moment of emptiness during which he can hear the metallic clink of the suit doing _something_ , and then Mr. Stark shoves back in again. He’s thicker, longer: the real dick, as much as a suit’s dick can be real.

It’s plenty real for Peter; he arches, making sounds he didn’t even know he could make as the thing presses further into him. It’s firm but not entirely unyielding, slicked by lube, just the right side of too stiff—not human, but not so inhuman it hurts.

Above him, Mr. Stark is panting, breath stuttering as he goes deeper. It makes Peter suspect he can feel this, too, but trying to figure out how to ask to confirm the suspicion is beyond him. All he can do is relax and take him in and in, until finally Mr. Stark reaches the end, bottoming out with a satisfied grunt. Peter has never felt so full in his life, or so close to coming without quite being there, every nerve in his body screaming for release.

Mr. Stark moves his hands, pinning Peter’s wrists together with one gauntlet, propping himself up on his elbow with the other arm. His fingers, cold and large, cup Peter’s face.

“You said ruin you, right?” He sounds reverent, tone at odds with the words. “I’ll do my best.”

It’s all the warning Peter gets before he starts thrusting, brutal, the strength of the suit adding enough force that Peter can really feel it; like using the waldos on himself, but a thousand times better because this cold hard shell of metal has Mr. Stark inside it, and it’s Mr. Stark’s voice making low noises with each movement, animal and wanting.

Peter feels like he should be doing something to help: meeting the thrusts with his own movement, or kissing, or _anything_ , but the suit forces his hands in place and the weight of it keeps his hips held down. Mr. Stark keeps hitting the spot that makes every nerve sing, and Peter’s helpless to do anything but take it. Realizing that makes his balls tighten, orgasm close—

“Harder,” he manages to say. “Please, Mr. Stark, _please_.”

Mr. Stark goes harder: fast and rough, pounding, cold rod drilling into him. Peter tries to squirm, can’t, loses his breath, can’t catch it with the suit baring down on him, rubbing against his cock with every thrust of Mr. Stark’s hips. And still, it’s not enough.

“ _Please_ ,” he says again, not even sure what he’s begging for. _More_ , but how do you have more when you already have everything? “Please, please, _please_.”

“Look at me,” Mr. Stark commands, and Peter does. He’s greeted by a face that’s flushed and twisted with pleasure. “Come on, Peter, I don’t want to come before you.”

Peter tries to jerk his hips up, chasing the pressure of the suit on top of him, but it’s not enough, none of it is enough. “I’m sorry, sir, _please_ , I’m—I’m _trying_ —”

“You’re so hot like this,” Mr. Stark murmurs. Somehow, he fucks into Peter even harder, rhythm getting erratic. “Helpless, begging, at my mercy.”

The heat of the words flushes through Peter’s body. He nods, hoping his eyes are able to convey how good it is, because he can’t make the connection to words.

“Beautiful.” Mr. Stark leans forward, lips just above his ear. “I could look at you every day for the rest of my life.”

And that’s it: Peter’s flying, falling; the entire world flicks out for a moment as he comes harder than he ever has in his life. Mr. Stark makes a sound like maybe he’s coming, too, but Peter can’t do more than note that as he rides the wave of his own pleasure, limp and useless.

***

Eventually there’s shuffling next to him, the faintest whir of metal, and then he’s surrounded by warmth. As he comes back into himself, he realizes that’s because the suit has gone away, even the chestplate put aside somewhere, and Mr. Stark is surrounding him, trying to drag him closer. Peter lets himself be pulled into the embrace, rolling so he can fling his arms around the body next to him.

Mr. Stark is naked, and Peter’s too exhausted to truly appreciate the view. Figures. He closes his eyes, content with the feel of skin on skin and the steady rise and fall of Mr. Stark’s chest.

He expects him to say something. They haven’t really had a conversation about what any of this is—just started with the world’s most surprising care package and somehow found themselves here. But Mr. Stark is silent, and Peter is too worn out to want to do anything but bask in the afterglow, so they’re silent together.

They stay like that, Mr. Stark tracing figure eights on Peter’s back with one hand, playing with his hair with the other, for long enough that Peter starts to drift, half dozing. When Mr. Stark finally talks, it’s not to ask how Peter is feeling; it’s not to make him say anything at all. Instead, he simply starts, “So, about that haptic feedback. Here’s how it works…”

Peter smiles, curling closer, and lets himself be lulled by the sound of that voice. He’s only half following—he’ll have to ask for a repeat of the explanation later—but he thinks that’s okay. Following isn’t the point. The point is he’s allowed to drift, right now. He’s satisfied and comfortable, and he can enjoy that without having to wonder what any of it means.

This is, to be clear, still absolutely crazy. He can’t believe it’s happening. But as his mind wanders into sleep, he does, for a moment, accept that it’s real.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted anon for an exchange; redated now that my name is on it. Sorry if you've already seen it! 
> 
> As always, feedback is loved <3


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